Translation
by Sibbed
Summary: Love delivered through a translation of a song.


_Como un palomo en celo, me desvelo por tí._

_Doy vueltas como un trompo y me rompo para tí._

_En medio de mi pecho, los deshechos de tu amor_

_Me van dejando herido, pero no siento dolor._

_Por favor, dime que sí._

_Por favor, no es para mí,_

_es para que volemos al lugar que más quieras..._

The song was on repeat all day long and John was getting tired of it. The tune seemed happy and catchy, but damn if it wasn't tiring to keep listening to it once and again and again and again.

"Sherlock! Stop that shit now." John was not going to ask nicely.

"What?" As distracted as he could be, Sherlock stared blankly at his friend.

"It's been already 46 times that you, and by proxy I, have heard that song already." John was yelling now, getting more and more agitated by the minute.

"It's for an experiment!" He turned on his sit and went back to checking the spores of the fungus he needed to actually observe for the case.

"It's giving me a migraine, please." John was now appealing to the good side of Sherlock, but all he managed to get was the response of the five year old child living in Sherlock's mind. "No."

"Sherlock!"

"What?" Again, distracted by the spores, Sherlock couldn't be bothered by John's complaints.

The song kept invading John's thought throughout the day.

"It's Saturday." Sherlock stated this to John as if he was supposed to understand in a heartbeat.

"Yes?"

"Ah, I haven't been sleeping."

"You never sleep, Sherlock."

"I know."

John decided to let it be. Sherlock was being even more impossible than ever and he was not in a mood to fight him or try to understand him. He grabbed his coat and left.

A couple of hours (and beers) later, when he returned to the flat, he found himself humming the song Sherlock had been listening to all day.

"Damn you." He sat down on his armchair and talked a little too loud, startling a very focused Sherlock.

"Mmmh?"

"The song. The fucking song. Really. Do keep up." He was mocking Sherlock and a giggle escaped from his mouth.

"Oh, you're a little tipsy?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow and thought that the spores could wait, then.

"I've been humming it the whole way back home." John didn't even bother to come up with a witty answer about his drunken situation.

Sherlock grinned. "Now you like it, don't you?"

"God, no. What the fuck does it say?"

"You are spilling profanities like a teenager." Sherlock stood up and walked across the room, getting closer to John, sitting on his chair.

"Yes. Well… tell me. What does it say?"

_"Like a pigeon in heat_-" Sherlock started to translate the song by heart, but John interrupted him.

"Oh, god, that's terrible. Horrible image."

"Shut up!" He was getting frustrated at John.

_"Like a pigeon in heat, I'm sleepless for you."_

Sherlock was singing softly the Spanish version, to himself.

"That doesn't even make sense." John was acting like a really pissed teenager.

"If you don't want to know, then let me get back to my spores." He frowned and John closed his mouth and nodded repeatedly.

_"I spin like a top and I break just because."_

"Oh, that's actually nice." Sherlock looked at him defiantly and John pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head, trying to show Sherlock that he would listen.

_"In the middle of my chest the ruins of your love, they've left me wounded, but there's no more pain."_

Sherlock looked down and a sincere smile was drawing in his face.

"The pigeon part was a little weird, but then, well… it's nice." John remained oblivious to the Sherlock next to him doing his deductions and understanding what was meant to happen soon.

_"Please, say yes. Please, it's not only for me. It's for us to fly to the place you love the most."_

Sherlock was keeping his eyes fixed on John, he was begging through his eyes for John to understand and he was trying too hard not to make an irreversible mistake.

"So… it would be a nice song," John said, "if you didn't listen to it one hundred times in a day." He yawned and noticed the intense look he was getting from Sherlock, but couldn't make out what on earth was going on. "I'm crushed. I need to sleep off the beer and the song drilling through my brain. I'll go to bed now. Good night." John got to his feet and struggling climbed the stairs to his bed, leaving a very confused and startled Sherlock behind.

His bed was cool and the room temperature wasn't helping. John got himself into bed with great effort and fell asleep almost immediately.

The next morning he woke up astonished. He couldn't have been so unaware, how didn't he notice before? How didn't he notice right at that moment? Sherlock's words started to spin in his mind and then, the face, that face he made when he said the last bit. John felt like a true, real idiot. He knew Sherlock and everything he did had a deep, anfractuous motive. He couldn't understand how he didn't read that last night and he blamed it on the beer. He was drunk and saying stupid things and so tired of the song.

"Oh, God." John whispered and realized his head was pounding, yelling at him 'hello, I'm here, I'm your head and I'm hurting'.

He shifted on the bed and felt his whole body complain, every muscle was pulling in a different direction and everything hurt. Everything. His mouth was dry and he was nauseous and thirsty and hungry and his head was pounding really hard. He moved again, prompting himself up, to sit up, at least and he got a response from his head, a drill perforating on his brain and the constant pounding. He reached for the glass of water he kept on his nightstand and drank the water as if it was heavenly provided; he finished it and sighed.

A song started to sound in the back of his mind, but he realized it wasn't coming from his mind. It was coming from downstairs. He wanted to yell at Sherlock to shut it, but even the thought of a shout accentuated the headache, so he resolved to climb down the stairs in his calamitous state and ask Sherlock nicely to turn it off, but he began to feel guilty and couldn't even get to the door. Sherlock was trying to tell him something in a very lovely way, a very non Sherlock-y way, and John was going to ruin everything; was going to, if he didn't already. So he sat down on the bed and rubbed his face with his hands, considering every variable and every possible outcome. He was thinking in a way, he thought, Sherlock would be proud.

When his mind settled and he reached an irrevocable conclusion, John changed his clothes and resolutely went to meet Sherlock. Every step down the stairs resounded in his head, every breath he took made his whole torso hurt, but he kept going, one step at the time. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with John's laptop on his knees, typing something about the spores. He looked up when John sat down on his armchair, making a sound like if he was a tree being overthrown, but immediately went back to his typing.

"Morning, Sherlock." John whispered, feeling his head shout abuse at him for even dare to speak.

"Mmh…"

"Why are you- No, leave it, never mind." There was no use asking him anything, lease of all asking him why was he using his computer. The answer would be obvious and John would get irritated and that couldn't get them anywhere nice. "So, Sherlock?"

"Mmmhh…" He was being disturbingly quiet and John began to wonder if he had misread the situation. His brain couldn't process things rapidly at the moment.

"The answer is yes." The words poured out from his mouth almost without his own permission and John panicked for a second, waiting and hoping and expecting. He wanted it to be more dignified, less hangover-y; but it was about them, and this, whatever it was and however it was happening, this right here was what they were.

Finally, after leaving John to panic for a while, Sherlock looked up smirking and closed the laptop. John smiled at him and said, "yes, let's fly to the place we love the most."


End file.
